Scandal in Spring
Page 42

“You can’t possibly be comfortable on the settee,” Annabelle finally said, pulling Lillian upright. “Come, dear. Time to go to bed.”
“Should I—” Daisy began, thinking Westcliff should finally be summoned.
“Yes, I think so,” Annabelle said.
Relieved at the prospect of actually doing something instead of helplessly sitting by, Daisy asked, “And then what? Do we need sheets? Towels?”
“Yes, yes,” Annabelle said over her shoulder, hooking a firm arm around Lillian’s back. “And scissors and a hot water bottle. And tell the housekeeper to send up some valerian oil, and some tea with dried motherwort and shepherd’s purse.”
As the others helped Lillian to the master bedroom, Daisy hurried downstairs. She went to the billiards room only to find it empty, then scampered to the library and one of the main parlors. It seemed Westcliff was nowhere to be found. Tamping down her impatience, Daisy forced herself to walk calmly past some guests in the hallway, and headed to Westcliff’s study. To her relief, he was there with her father, Mr. Hunt, and Matthew Swift. They were involved in an animated conversation that included phrases such as “distribution network deficiencies” and “profits per unit of output.”
Becoming aware of her presence in the doorway, the men looked up. Westcliff rose from his half-seated position on the desk. “My lord,” Daisy said, “if I might have a word with you?”
Although she spoke calmly, something in her expression must have alerted him. He didn’t waste a second in coming to her. “Yes, Daisy?”
“It’s about my sister,” she whispered. “It seems her labor has started.”
She had never seen the earl look so utterly taken aback.
“It’s too early,” he said.
“Apparently the baby doesn’t think so.”
“But…this is off-schedule.” The earl seemed genuinely baffled that his child would have failed to consult the calendar before arriving.
“Not necessarily,” Daisy replied reasonably. “It’s possible the doctor misjudged the date of the baby’s birth. Ultimately it’s only a matter of guesswork.”
Westcliff scowled. “I expected far more accuracy than this! It’s nearly a month before the projected…” A new thought occurred to him, and he turned skull-white. “Is the baby premature?”
Although Daisy had entertained a few private concerns about that, she shook her head immediately. “Some women show more than others, some less. And my sister is very slender. I’m sure the baby is fine.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Lillian has had pains for the past four or five hours, and now they’re coming every ten minutes or so, which Annabelle says—”
“She’s been in labor for hours and no one told me?” Westcliff demanded in outrage.
“Well, it’s not technically labor unless the intervals between the pains are regular, and she said she didn’t want to bother you until—”
Westcliff let out a curse that startled Daisy. He turned to point a commanding but unsteady finger at Simon Hunt. “Doctor,” he barked, and took off at a dead run.
Simon Hunt appeared unsurprised by Westcliff’s primitive behavior. “Poor fellow,” he said with a slight smile, reaching over the desk to slide a pen back into its holder.
“Why did he call you ‘Doctor’?” Thomas Bowman asked, feeling the effects of an afternoon snifter of brandy.
“I believe he wants me to send for the doctor,” Hunt replied. “Which I intend to do immediately.”
Unfortunately there were difficulties in producing the doctor, a venerable old man who lived in the village. The footman sent to summon him returned with the unhappy report that in the process of escorting the doctor to Westcliff’s waiting carriage, the old man had injured himself.
“How?” Westcliff demanded, having come outside the bedroom to receive the footman’s report. A small crowd of people including Daisy, Evie, St. Vincent, Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Swift were all waiting in the hallway. Annabelle was inside the room with Lillian.
“Milord,” the footman said to Westcliff regretfully, “the doctor slipped on a wet paving-stone and fell to the ground before I could catch him. His leg is injured. He says he does not believe the limb is broken, but all the same he cannot come to assist Lady Westcliff.”
A wild gleam appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. “Why weren’t you holding the doctor’s arm? For God’s sake, he’s a fossil! It’s obvious he couldn’t be trusted to walk by himself on wet pavement.”
“If he’s all that frail,” Simon Hunt asked reasonably, “how was the old relic supposed to be of any use to Lady Westcliff?”
The earl scowled. “That doctor knows more about childbirth than anyone between here and Portsmouth. He has delivered generations of Marsden issue.”
“At this rate,” Lord St. Vincent said, “the latest Marsden issue is going to arrive all by itself.” He turned to the footman. “Unless the doctor had any suggestion of how to replace himself?”
“Yes, milord,” the footman said uncomfortably. “He told me there is a midwife in the village.”
“Then go fetch her at once,” Westcliff barked.
“I’ve already tried, milord. But…she’s a bit tap-hackled.”
Westcliff scowled. “Bring her anyway. At the moment I’m hardly inclined to quibble over a glass of wine or two.”